-- pythagorean silence, Susan Howe
"And he said:
"Oh, Abelard!" as if the topic
Were much too abstruse for his comprehension..."
That this blog-basis in the Transparency of an Unameable Ecstacy, what my friend recently called Bewilderness, which remains true, (even if he didn't say it), that this was not only about the carnal but also about the celestial, cosmic, the post-coital & quantum entanglement, the end of excluded middles of all sorts, only goes to say that it's all about what it cannot be about. Ever. Yet strives to be. Authentic, even falsely (as Fernando Pessao might have put it). Moreover, the continuity of my writing this blog remains in the notion of truth Olson wrote of which consists in standing more revealed but, with the new perspective, that the most revealed is also the most flat, unprepared, unadorned, naked, even without scandal, at times. So bold and potent that it passes for banal. In Jim Jarmusch's recent film, Paterson, this character, who remains the city, the almost Blakean eternal one of the dream, the great figure, the anonymous rock (WCW) Paterson: a poet and no-one, a listener. When his girl-friend urges him to publish, and even speaks to him about the trumpet image in the Ohio Bluetip Matches in the poem she has never heard him recite, and he knows. Maybe the poems are all cribbed from things there no ideas but within. The poet knows only or only knows the sources of the real and that the only thing standing in between is some nameless illusion we can't fathom.
Strike anywhere, they say. Water Falls. "Hey, what's that from?"
So he stood on the island— over the sea
Until creation was a cone with polished sides."
-- George Oppen
final photo: Park Wilsona, Poznan
all others internet archives
I believe the far left an image of
Père Lachaise, Paris
but I've never been to the alleged tomb
of Abelard & Heloise. It is believed
by many they are not there, or not both
& yet one hears the pilgrim letters
of forlorn lovers
litter the stones